


Fate, Via Winston

by Whreflections



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dogs, Fluff, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5528714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham is an overworked vet tech who works with a dog rescue in his spare time...which despite his work he has quite a bit of, because outside of his dogs to go home to his life is pretty lonely and quiet- even a newspaper article on his skills with both dog behavior and reading prospective owners to make the best adoption fit doesn't do too much to impact his world. </p><p>Or at least, it doesn't at first, but there's a lot of people that read the paper in Baltimore, and some of them are more patient than others.  Patient enough, in fact, to sit on a park bench and draw and bide their time with sausage tucked in their coat pocket right around the time of day Will Graham brings his dogs to the park...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fate, Via Winston

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poplitealqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poplitealqueen/gifts).



> So, I first want to say I really wish this had been longer, but like the writing spaz I sometimes am I changed my mind about how this piece was going to go, oh roughly ten times. T.T 
> 
> THAT SAID, even though it's not as long as I wanted and I'm coming off a week of intense stress so I have trouble trusting my judgement, I actually think I like this version better than any of the others I tried? I really really hope you like it, <3 It was _so_ hard for me to write a season 1 type Will because I'm still pretty new to this fandom and that's just so outside my comfort zone because dark!murder husband Will is my favorite flavor of Will, but I really tried to do this Will justice because I wanted you to have your favorite flavor of Will :D Anyway, I just, I am kind of nervous and super sleepy but I really hope this came out okay and if you celebrate it, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas!!!!  <3

_It was all Winston’s fault, really._

_Years later, Hannibal will call it fate, and Will will roll his eyes and reiterate, Winston, and his own failure to follow the leash laws.  Hannibal will then adjust his statement- fate, via Winston._

_It won’t stop Will from shaking his head, but he’ll kiss him and pour the wine for dinner anyway and really, that’s all that matters._

==========

In Will’s experience, men in nice suits generally weren’t the type to want dog hair on them.  Not that he had much experience with men in nice suits, or suits of any quality at all, really.  The last guy he’d dated had worn shorts even in the dead of winter.  Still, he knew enough to be relatively certain the guy perched on a park bench drawing in a suit that looked more pressed and clean than anything Will had ever owned _really_ didn’t want dog hair on him. 

Will winced as he came to a stop, a little winded from jogging after Winston after he’d taken off on his mad dash.  “Winston—“ 

At the sound of his name, Winston seemingly determined to redouble his selective hearing efforts, tucked his feet in and let his head fall like dead weight onto the man’s sketch pad. 

Will swore.  “I am _so_ sorry; he’s usually not like this.  Winston, would you—“  He wasn’t moving, and the guy wasn’t talking, and even though the thought of getting in this stranger’s personal space wasn’t appealing the thought of letting this awkward moment stretch any longer seemed even worse.  Will darted forward to take the other side of the bench, reached out and caught Winston’s collar to drag him off the bench.  “—come _here_.  You know better than that.” 

More out of uncharacteristic petulance than honest effort, Winston pressed into his collar with a stretch of his neck and hacked dramatically when Will’s grip held. 

Will tugged on the rolled leather beneath his fingers, a light correction.  “ _Winston_ , no; you can’t just— I really don’t know what got into him, unless you remind him of his dad.  I mean, his first dad; he was an artist too, and he’s still not really sure what’s going on in his life right now.  Winston, not Mr. Jefferson, he’s sure about his and more sure about the divorce and giving Winston up than his wife was but—“  Dear God, he needed to shut up.  Will laughed softly, quick and nervous, punctuated with the scrub of his hand across the stubble of his beard and a quick flick of his eyes up to the man he hadn’t even bothered to look at properly until now.  He was handsome, unusual, as well put together as Will had figured, if not better.  He looked torn between amusement, amazement, and irritation.  “I’m really sorry.  We’ll leave you to your work.”

“It’s no trouble; I was almost finished for the evening in any case.  The light is fading.”  It was, beautifully.  The sky was blue and cream, a single tendril of pink.  Will had always been fond of sunsets.  “Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Will blinked at the hand suddenly in his line of vision, recovered well enough to take it carefully.  It was easier to watch the handshake than look up again, though he found himself tempted to.  “Will Graham.  Sorry to have interrupted your work, Dr. Lecter; if you see us again I’ll be sure Winston doesn’t pay you any more surprise visits.”   He pressed his hand to his knee, ready to rise, only to freeze when the man beside him shifted and spoke again. 

“I hope you will forgive me this intrusion, but would you happen to be the Will Graham of the Davison Clinic?  I saw the article in the paper weeks ago; your work sounds remarkable.” 

Will swallowed, nearly fumbled his grip on Winston’s collar.  He’d been called out at work often enough that he’d taken to using only staff entrances and skirting around through back passages whenever possible, but he’d never been recognized outside of it.  “It’s not always like they made it sound; not all the stories end like Samson’s.” 

“I’d imagine they don’t, but that doesn’t mean those endings were due to any failing on your part.  From what I’ve heard your analysis carries a staggering success rate.”

“Even I’m not right all the time; I do my best—“

“And your best is better than anyone else’s.  You need not downplay your skills.  As I understand it, your work has saved many lives and brought happiness to countless others.  Your insight must be every bit as impressive as it seems to have such a track record.” 

Even without looking to meet it Will could feel the weight of his gaze, though for all its intensity it didn’t rest heavy on his skin.  It was hard to mind it, even with his cheeks burning.  “It’s not that hard, really, I—“  Will’s anxiety flared.  He did his best to combat it by suddenly becoming intent on a burr behind Winston’s right front.  “I’m just a tech; I’m not even licensed.  I spend most of the day working hospital cases like everyone else, but some of those cases end up becoming owner surrenders or we have drop offs from people who know we work with the rescue and…”  He shrugged, yanked hard enough that the burr came out, with a tuft of fur.  To his credit, Winston barely flinched.  “Dogs are easier to read than people.  Most of them just need love and patience.  Once I can see who they really are, when their new family comes in they usually aren’t hard to recognize.  I have…”  No matter how many times he said them, the words always tasted strange on his tongue, not quite right to label what he was, how he felt.  In part, but insufficient, not all inclusive.  “I have an empathy disorder.  Useful for reading prospective owners, less useful for…”  A smirk tugged at his lips, his huff of laughter soft.  “Functioning.” 

“I can imagine.” 

Glancing up at Hannibal over Winston’s head, he had the strangest feeling that maybe he honestly could.  Will blinked, ducked quickly enough that his glasses slid a little further down his nose.  Over the frames, the waves of brindle in Winston’s fur blurred in the twilight. 

“You aren’t fond of eye contact, are you, Will?” 

Not in the slightest, but he _was_ fond of that voice, warm and soft and steady, non-judgemental as if he were remarking on the shade of a sweater rather than a trait most people found unnerving and off-putting.  For the sake of that, Will did manage to meet his eyes, though it took effort not to let his dart back away.  “In dogs eye contact is a sign of aggression; you stare down enemies not friends or acquaintances or—“  Or strangers, with eyes like simmering gold, flecks of color seeping through like cracks.  Entranced, before he realized it he’d looked too long, held his breath.  He let it out in a rush that passed for laughter, and looked away.  “I ah, I wouldn’t be very good at my job if it wasn’t so easy for me to follow a good code of conduct.  Besides, eyes are distracting—you see too much, you don’t see enough…”

“And you have little use for them.  With your abilities, you gather clues enough not to need them.  There are reasons the eye has been called the window to the soul.  For you, such an open connection must feel like a raw nerve.” 

It did, undoubtedly, but he’d never had anyone else pick it up before.  Not his psych teacher in high school, not his first girlfriend, not the doctor he’d teched for for nearly ten years.  Just this man he’d met on a park bench barely five minutes ago.  If he could find his breath he might know what to say, but for once it’s easier to look up and find Hannibal’s eyes boring into his, growing ever darker in the dying light. 

========

_If Winston carries the blame for their beginnings, it’s Sarah who carries the weight of them in full, the heavy drag of clarity.  It didn’t come all at once but rather in her wake, in a way Will likens to the sweep of her tail across the back patio when it’s just started to snow.  Without her, he’s not sure when he would have seen._

_He can’t tell Hannibal this too often; he’s learned.  Every time he does, her weight mysteriously increases, as does her time spent staring at Hannibal.  If he wanted to, Will could complain that there’s little point in giving him the setter he wanted as a kid if he’s just going to steal her.  He could, but he doesn’t, because she’s still his dog, really, and there’s something to be said for the way Hannibal looks at her sometimes, as if the prey she’s nudged into his arms off the edge of her nose is the greatest blinding joy he’s ever seen._

========

Unto a point, becoming friends with Hannibal Lecter had been in strong competition for the strangest event in his life.  Dating him had eclipsed it, easily, but _this_ …

Will wouldn’t have anticipated in a thousand years he’d ever be kneeling on the floor of a bathroom that probably cost more than his entire house and working burrs out of a dog’s fur with a man who occasionally steam ironed his silk pajamas.  And yet, here he was, both of them in pajama pants and soft old t-shirts, leaning over a deep white tub and picking at snarled tendrils of long red fur.  Somewhere between last year and this one, his life had become entirely unpredictable. 

The smile Will could feel pulling at his mouth felt like it had been there to varying degrees since before dinner.  It was too buoyant to dismiss, too well founded despite the ache in his back and his knees, the still seeping cut he’d taken across the back of his knuckles when he found a thorn buried in the fur at Sarah’s stomach.  He tugged at a particularly stubborn bit of twig, glanced at Hannibal to see his eyes narrowed, long fingers delicately parting tail fur and crumbling leaves. 

Will’s laughter was soft, though enough to draw his glance, his question in his eyes. 

“It’s just…I can’t believe you still wanted me to come over.  You didn’t have to do this.”  Not remotely, and Will was utterly honest in saying he hadn’t expected him to.  He’d hated to call and cancel their dinner, but he hadn’t expected to have brought home the high strung dog of a Chesapeake Ripper victim, either.  She was a stunningly gorgeous Irish Setter, a former show dog, only two years old and clearly about as used to runs in the country as Will was accustomed to the operas and plays Hannibal occasionally coaxed him into.  Will had intended to keep a good eye on her until she was used to the area(Or, he reminded himself, until he’d found her a good home.  She was a foster, a _foster_.  Like his first seven had been.), but she’d slipped her collar and taken off into the woods.  It took him over two hours to catch her and by the time he did, she was a godawful mess, and he was sure he wouldn’t be able to make dinner.  It had been enough that he’d been bringing Christy with him everywhere while she recovered from her surgery; it wouldn’t have even occurred to him to ask if he could bring a filthy dog whose temperament he knew next to nothing about into Hannibal’s immaculate house. 

It had, though, occurred to Hannibal to ask. 

Hannibal’s smile was warm as his eyes dropped from Will’s back to the knot in his hands, the last of the twisted leaf falling free to leave him with only matted hair.  “I didn’t have to; I wanted to.  Otherwise, I would have been sacrificing my evening with you for the sake of avoiding aiding you with a crisis.  I’d be a terrible boyfriend if I had.” 

The warmth from the water seemed to creep up Will’s arms, across his chest.  He licked his lips, and yanked on the twig beneath his thumb.  “I wouldn’t call it a crisis.”

“A mild crisis, then.” 

Will laughed in concession, broke and pulled free the loosened twig from the feathering behind Sarah’s elbow.  “Don’t get me wrong; it’s much appreciated.  I didn’t want to have to cancel, but I just couldn’t leave her, not after the week she’s had.” 

Hannibal hummed, took a hand from his work to reach out and stroke slow and soothing down her flank.  “She has had quite the ordeal, though you said he left her unharmed?”

“Physically, and…arguably mentally.  Her fear in the woods wasn’t a flee for her life but more an act of confusion.  So far at least I can’t see any indication he killed her owner in front of her, though I’m not sure how much she would have reacted even if he had.  The way I understand it, she was a fun game for him on the show circuit; she didn’t spend much time at the house or with him.” 

Hannibal’s hand dancing along her spine, checking fur already picked clean and settling her again before he went back to her tail.  “If he were a psychopathic sadist by the truest, traditional description, he would not have left her, not when it would have been easy to dispose of her.  Do you know why he left her?” 

“I…”  Will’s throat stuck, his shoulders shrugging a little too quick before he focused on pouring more water and picking up his comb.  Dematting followed no logic, and each dog was different.  Some came out better wet, others dry, others with skills as yet undetermined because he didn’t possess them.  Anything that survived his best efforts was clipped free.  “They said she was an addition to the scene.  A mark of sadism; maybe he used the prospect of killing the dog as torture.” 

“I asked what you believed, Will, not what the news suggested.”  Hannibal’s shoulder pressed briefly to his with the light admonishment as he shifted, a clearly non-coincidental press.  “How do you see the Chesapeake Ripper?” 

He didn’t, really, not as more than a man in black with a shrouded face who wove into his nightmares for days every time an article on one of his kills hit the paper.  Will read them every time, and every time told himself he shouldn’t.  He was no formal student of behavior and that made it easy to write most of his observations off, but not all of them were so willing to be banished.  There was, after all, the matter of his…gifts.  No formal training, sure, but he didn’t always need it.  He didn’t need it as a tech, and deep down he didn’t feel he needed it to know this.  Not this strange, elusive man. 

“Maybe he’s a sadist, but not the way they see him.  He didn’t leave Sarah untouched because he used her to torture Alex Cantrell, he—“  Will’s sigh was quick and hard, soap suds flinging from his hand as he dropped the comb to gesture aimlessly.  “She was practically _gift wrapped_ ; that red leather collar is brand new.  It still smells like fresh leather and she just came back off a circuit.  Cantrell doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to give a welcome home present, or to dress her up when there’s no one around to see.  She wasn’t just left, either, she was _presented_ , tied to the bed to make sure she didn’t escape when the body was discovered or immediately after.  Even the murder doesn’t feel like his other kills; I mean the staging is there but there’s…it doesn’t _feel_ the same.  I can’t explain it.” 

“Didn’t you?  From what you say, this man sounds as if he were a means to an end.  The Ripper chooses his victims with precision.”  Hannibal paused in his work long enough to stretch, shifted to lean backwards against the tub and study Will.  Without a word, he’d both invited and enticed Will to take a break with him, and Will took it, gratefully.  His fingers felt like they had started to tie themselves in knots.  Will flexed his hands, reached over to drain the water.  They could work the last few out damp, and in a minute.  They were down to the last handful anyway.  For now, he could let her jump out and rub dry on the towels he’d laid out on the floor before they started. 

While she was still considering the lip of the bathtub and weather the leap over such a dangerous obstruction was worth it, Will settled down at Hannibal’s side.  “If every victim is chosen with precision and Sarah seems the focal point of this one, that means she’s the reason he was chosen?  Is that what you’re saying?” 

“I’m wondering if you’ve fully considered your own implications.  You said she seemed ‘gift wrapped’.  Perhaps she was.” 

Will’s stomach jerked, though he hid the jolt in a fount of rough laughter, quick and a little breathless.  To ground himself, he let his head tilt to rest against the solidity of Hannibal’s shoulder.  “For who?  He doesn’t seem big on subtlety.  If he wanted to give someone a gift, I’d think he’d want them to know it.”

“He may have.  Who would be more likely to take her in in the neighborhood of the kill than you?  You did tell your story about reading _Big Red_ as a child in your interview months ago.  At least a few of your desires are common knowledge.” 

Yes, he’d thought of that.  He wasn’t about to tell Hannibal, not when it sounded so ludicrous, but it _had_ crossed his mind.  It was doing more than that, now—the thought was lingering, setting up a home.  Whatever the Ripper’s interest in him, if present at all, this likely wouldn’t be his last statement.  Will swallowed heavily, his heart so quick the pulse point in his throat hurt. 

“The thought of his regard troubles you.”

“Doesn’t it trouble _you_?”  It was easier, much easier to answer like that, a little teasing, vaguely insulted, tempered by a smile when Hannibal’s arm came around his shoulders to pull him in close and kiss the top of his head.  Behind them, Sarah startled at the movement, leaping awkwardly over the edge and over them both, showering them with water and clipping Hannibal’s arm with her foot.  Will swore, and Hannibal squeezed him tighter. 

“If I thought you had something to fear from him, it would trouble me, but I’ve seen nothing in the profile I’ve helped Jack with that indicates a stalker.  If he did leave you this gift, his regard is genuine and I can only admire his taste.” 

Will ducked his head, swept his glasses off only to have a hard time finding a place to dry the droplets off of them on his wet shirt.  He gave them up for a lost cause and let them drop to his lap instead, had barely turned to Hannibal before his cheek was cupped in the palm of Hannibal’s hand and his mouth met in a kiss.  Compared to the growing chill of wet clothes, the heat of Hannibal’s tongue was searing, Will’s moan soft and grateful. 

The sound of Sarah digging furiously at the tile in an attempt to dry her face distracted him and he pulled away with unsteady breath, his fingers curling pleased in the soft hair just above the nape of Hannibal’s neck.  “Given his other tastes, admiring his tastes too openly might be a problem.” 

Hannibal’s teeth nipped lightly at Will’s bottom lip, the tilt of a smile pressed against his skin.  “We’ve all thought of killing at some point in our lives.  As a psychiatrist, I know his only difference is follow through, a choice not to restrain those impulses.  It’s not incomprehensible.  Surely you’ve imagined yourself killing.” 

In his nightmares, often, both as himself and as others.  Outside of them…here and there, increasingly.  He couldn’t help but glance reflexively at the bathroom door at the thought, his eyes drawn with his mind to the dog who they’d left sleeping on a soft bed at the foot of Hannibal’s just outside it.  Christy’s ears had been so infected the pus had left stains down her neck, across her chest.  She’d clawed herself so bloody and deep she’d carry scars for the rest of her life, further ones from the surgery she’d had just two weeks ago to remove ear canals damaged by disease beyond the point of saving. 

The tug of Hannibal’s thumb at the corner of his mouth was enough to make Will jump, pulling him forcefully out of remembrance.  “No need to hide it; I asked.  Who is it you saw yourself killing?” 

The dream flashed in his mind, the hiss of steam, the claw of nails down his arm.  Will’s breath hitched, his eyes fluttering closed.  “I…it was a nightmare.  It’s happened before.” 

“And this one?”

“The woman who surrendered Christy.  I…poured boiling water in her ears.  Her eyes.  It wasn’t quick it was—  I shouldn’t tell you this; you’ll think—“

“That you’re human.  The desire is utterly natural, particularly as a response to terrible acts.  What was done to Christy was terrible; what you envision you see as payment, don’t you?”  Hannibal’s hand slid lower to press against his neck, his fingers fitting neatly and not at all subtlety against his pulse.  “How did you feel in the dream, when it was over?” 

Chaos, red hot triumph, cold horror, fierce joy.  As if his throat were too full for speech, a scream already spilling unconscious out of him.  Will opened his eyes to find no judgment in Hannibal’s, no revulsion, nothing but love and acceptance, rapt attention, and something…the barest flash of something that could have been hunger, there and gone.  Will’s stomach twisted, his mouth gone dry.  For a moment, he could have sworn he could see a reflection in Hannibal’s eyes, a dark, shrouded figure. 

“It felt…”  He could feel Hannibal’s breath against his lips, hot, uneven.  “Just.” 

Rather than answer, Hannibal kissed him, greedy and thorough, so determined that by the time he’d finished, Will was ready to forget that he’d worried how Hannibal might take that, what it might make him see in the man he’d so often lately taken into his bed. 

He was ready to forget, too, that he hadn’t asked Hannibal what his own answer would have been. 

 


End file.
